


Still Fighting For Peace

by erisgregory



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Heavy Angst, M/M, Mary is just gone and we don't explain it, Mentions of Rape, Not Canon Compliant, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, POV Multiple, Panic Attacks, Parentlock, Post Reichenbach, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, REALLY slow, Slow Burn, Unresolved Romantic Tension, as they arise, baby holmes instead, in the past, mentions of torture, no baby watson, the rape is in the past, what season 4?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-20
Updated: 2017-04-27
Packaged: 2018-10-21 04:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,119
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10677591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erisgregory/pseuds/erisgregory
Summary: All it takes is one text from Mycroft to completely change Sherlock's life. His daughter is arriving soon and Sherlock has no idea how he's supposed to handle it.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I'm writing this with an anonymous coauthor who plays a brilliant, though damaged, Sherlock in our roleplay.

What was he going to do?

Sherlock sat with his phone in one hand and head in the other, shaking and asking himself that question over and over again. A text--his brothers unsure attempt at broaching the subject--still shone on his cell screen as he struggled to get his breathing under control and his mind back under his thumb.

His three year absence left many scars. Some had to be stitched back together with needles, others with time. Some only John's presence managed to soothe. But, though they hurt, they were only distant reminders of the horrible life he'd led after the fall. And of the things he'd done--and that had been done--to him all in the name of protecting the people he loved.

It wasn't easy bearing those wounds but it was better than the alternative. And he always assumed he would be able to keep pushing through so long as he was able to lock up the memories and put the past behind him. Sure, sometimes he woke in a sweat with a scream on his lips but John always came to soothe him and help him through the shakes without too many questions.

After all, he knew what it was like to have demons.

But this? This text? It brought back some of the worst memories. Memories of a dark room and a smirking woman with knives and a penchant for torture. The things she'd done to him...they were things he wouldn't wish on his worst enemies. And now the result of her...tender affections...was on it's way to England and he had no idea how to handle it.

A daughter. He had a three month old daughter. Not one he wanted, not one he even had a choice in producing, but she was there. And her mother was dead (probably Mycroft’s doing) and she was on her way and he couldn't handle this. So he texted the one person who might be able to handle this.

John, I need you-Sh

Things weren’t great for John. They were fine. He was fine. He was back to work which was fine, and he had his little bachelor flat which was fine, but none of it was what he could call good or even remotely great. He missed Sherlock most of all. He missed the way things were before. 

John was angry when Sherlock returned, but they’d got passed that. Then he was married, and yeah, they’d got passed that too, but things hadn’t gone back to normal despite each of them forgiving the other for their shortcomings and failures. There was a distance between them that no amount of tea or texts or helping with cases could fix and John hated that.

However, no matter what the tension between them may be, John was always going to try. So when he got the text he moved quickly to dress and grab his coat and he was off before he could even ask what was happening.

On my way -JW. He texted in the cab.

Baker Street still felt like home. Maybe it always would. John missed it. He missed Mrs. Hudson, and the piles of whatever on the table, and even the body parts in the fridge. He missed all of it and wished he could be back already. It just didn’t feel right. Nothing felt right yet. So he didn’t say anything about it.

Inside he took off his coat and hung it up and the hurried up the stairs to find Sherlock.

“Sherlock?” He called as soon as he stepped in the flat.

Sherlock half glanced at his phone before just curling up on the couch. Despite the distance that had remained between them after his return, he knew that he could always count on John in a crisis. Whether it was running like mad through London, grabbing a sociopath while wearing a bomb jacket, or forgiving him for jumping off a roof, John was one of only a handful of people on the planet that he could say he trusted implicitly. 

Which was good because the other person was Mycroft and...well...this wasn't the sort of thing his brother was equipped to handle.

To his credit, Mycroft had been rather delicate in informing him of what happened. No one else knew the hell that Sherlock went through after the fall; even John didn't know. If anyone would know how badly this would effect him, therefore, it was his brother. Mycroft knew that of all the horrors he'd survived in those two years, the child’s mother was the one person he almost didn't survive. It didn't take a genius to deduce that Mycroft had considered never telling him. Perhaps that would've been best, Sherlock didn't know, but that ship had sailed. He knew now and he had to figure out how to deal with it.

Sick to his stomach and shaking, he was so lost in his dark thoughts that he didn't hear the door open and close downstairs, nor did he hear footsteps on the stairs. So when John's voice broke the silence, he jumped into a defensive position immediately before realizing who it was. Only then did he relax a little.

But now that John was here he couldn't find the words. So, rather than saying hello, he simply tossed his phone at John with the text message to his brother open and went back to holding his head in his hands.

Sherlock was on the couch and it was clear this was a very bad whatever. He was folded up and clearly shaking. John wasn’t entirely sure what to do or say since he didn’t know what was happening, but before he could ask, Sherlock tossed his phone.

John caught the phone and thumbed it open. There was a text from Mycroft and…

“Jesus.” John’s voice was barely more than a whisper. Sherlock had a child? John knew there were things about that time, the time they were apart, that he didn’t know, and he’d always assumed they must be pretty serious so he never pried. If Sherlock wanted to talk to him about it, he would. Wouldn’t he?

Obviously John was missing something crucial because this was very obviously bad news. Life altering bad. Was the mother someone special?

He stepped closer to the couch. “Sherlock? Talk to me, what’s going on?”

For a long moment, Sherlock was quiet. Mycroft didn't get into the mother in the text; after all, they both knew what happened so why make a bad situation worse? But John wouldn't understand. He had questions, it was obvious, but Sherlock just didn't know how to explain it to him.

"It was Russia. There was a...a human trafficking ring there, they had information on Moriarty...on his net...I had to go. It wasn't the first time I'd infiltrated something like that; took down a terrible ring in Hong Kong three month earlier. It should've been simple. But a nasty run in with a Saudi drug cartel left me weaker, I made mistakes. They caught on to me."

Swallowing hard, he began digging his fingernails into his skin, trying to ground himself with pain. He was reminded of scars, of pain, of things worse than torture. Things he had never actually talked about before, things he tried never to think about.

He continued to pick. "She was the ringleader of the trafficking ring....she was a sociopath that made people like Moran and Moriarty look like saints. She....she tortured me, she let her...her men use me however they liked...and when she couldn't get any more information out of me, when her men got tired of me, she kept me to herself. I lost time, I don't know how long I was there. Mycroft says three months but....but it felt longer. So much longer. I thought I would die there, I wanted to die there after awhile. When...when Mycroft finally got me out of there I thought...I couldn't forget it but I thought I could move past it. Now...now I find out about...well..." he gestured weakly towards the phone.

John didn’t move as he listened. He could hardly believe what he was hearing. All he could think was that Sherlock was horribly tortured and when he finally got home John attacked him and punished him and drove him away. He wanted to sink into the floor. He wanted to run away, even, but only for a second. More than anything John wanted to undo the past and never let Sherlock leave, no matter what he accomplished surely what he’d been through wasn’t worth it.

He was crying, tearing up without even feeling it. He couldn’t feel anything except horror, and the overwhelming need to make this not be happening to Sherlock. The phone hit the floor. Again, John heard it but he felt nothing. 

“Jesu-- Sherlock, christ.” John was moving without a plan. He didn’t know how to be what Sherlock needed right now, or what he could possibly say. There was nothing to say, he was sure. It wasn’t like platitudes could make this better. Fuck Mycroft too, there was a feeling. He wanted to give him a piece of his mind.

John pulled and pushed at Sherlock as gently as he could until he was sitting on the couch with his arms around Sherlock.

“What can I do? Tell me what to do and I will do it. Okay? I’m here.”

Sherlock didn't need to look at John to know that what he'd said affected the man. Even saying it as tonelessly and blankly as he had, with as few details as he could manage, it was still a horrifying story and he knew it. What she'd done to him....he didn't know how to talk about the details, how to get into the hell she put him through. It took him months before he let anyone touch him, a full year before he was adequately able to stop flinching and reacting to certain triggers in public. Thankfully he'd gotten control by the time he returned to London and to John but this....it undid twelve months worth of work in the course of a few texts.

He flinched when John began moving him but allowed himself to be manhandled anyway. Sherlock was not in any fit state to do anything right then and he knew it.

"I don't know," he whispered, body trembling. "I don't know what to do, I don't know what I need you to do. I can't think straight. She's coming here....she's coming here and I don't know what to do. I thought I could leave all of it behind me, that if I just ignored that part of my life...the nightmares would stop the....the fear would go away. But that child...she's a reminder of what happened to me. What the woman did to me...What do I do John? I don't know what to do."

John was at a loss. He knew he was useless right now, but dammit he was determined to help hold Sherlock together, if such a thing was even possible. Admittedly John was rubbish at comforting anyone, but Sherlock wasn’t anyone. He was John’s best friend and partner and John would do his very best for him. Whatever that meant.

“I don’t know, Sherlock. I’m not sure what is right, but you don’t have to see her if you don’t want to. I don’t care what Mycroft says, it’s not his choice, okay? It’s yours. And if she does come here, I’ll take care of everything. I can’t believe he has the nerve-- no nevermind that.” He was holding Sherlock tight, too tight to be comfortable he was sure, but Sherlock kept shaking. He was going to shake completely apart and John was just doing what he could to prevent that. 

It finally sank in that Sherlock was having a panic attack. John knew what that was like, and unfortunately he knew he couldn’t just make it go away.

“Right now just breathe. Can you do that for me. Just breathe with me okay?” John took a deep breath and held it waiting for Sherlock.

Breathing seemed to be a bit beyond him at this point. Despite his attempts to quell them, memories were surfacing. Which incident resulted in a child? He felt sick to his stomach as his mind played over every possible instance that fell in the appropriate time line like some sort of sick movie. He barely even noticed John holding him he was such a wreck.

But he tried to do what John was saying even though his voice came through like it was far away. Sherlock was familiar with panic attacks, he'd had many of them after Mycroft rescued him from that hell hole. But that didn't make them any easier to get through. It took about five minutes of breathing with John before his shaking lessened and he was able to breathe almost normally again. He still felt ill but he'd managed to get through the flashbacks and panic attacks without hurting himself or someone else. It didn't always go that well.

"Sorry, sorry I didn't want you to see me like that," he said miserably, still not lifting his head from his hands. "Don't blame Mycroft. For once this isn't his fault, he just didn't know what else to do with....with the child. I don't even know what to do, how could he? She's coming here and I...I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I’m...I’m the other parent. And it's not her fault she exists but....but at the same time....at the same time the thought of her...of what happened to create her....makes me want to throw up."

It took time for Sherlock to calm down, not that John was expecting anything different. The situation was beyond them both, beyond anything John could imagine. It was totally unacceptable and yet it was happening. Of course, of course Sherlock was right. The baby was innocent, but surely that didn’t mean she had to be with Sherlock, right? Surely arrangements could be made? They had all of that money, presumably, couldn’t they buy the little one a nice life with a nice couple somewhere that was not here?

“Ah Sherlock, I’ll try not to blame him, but dammit I want to blame someone and he seems the easiest target right now. I know that’s not helping you, but honestly I’m lost too. I want to swoop in and made everything right and I can’t. I could kill...no, I’m sorry, I’ll stop now.” John clenched his jaw closed around the next angry words that wanted to come out of his mouth.

“You are the single most amazing man I’ve ever known, Sherlock. If anyone can get through this it is you.” John whispered the words. They were all he had.

“Do you want tea? Or anything? Anything at all?”

Sherlock couldn't even think about what he'd do with the child. Would he give it up? Would he keep it? Could he keep it? Which act would he regret more? Sherlock never wanted to be a parent and yet, against his will, here he was. It was still sinking in and he was still trying to get over the nausea he felt over what all this meant and the memories it dredged up.

But at least the panic had ceased to set in.

"Blame her. That's what I'm doing," he mumbled quietly. "He was just trying to do what he thought best. If he had hidden the child from me and I found out....no matter how she came about I would want to know she existed. It would feel...It would feel like a betrayal. I think that's what he decided. But you don't have to worry about killing that woman. My brother made sure she was taken care of."

He hung his head still, unsure how to respond to that. "You didn't hint I was so amazing when I came back," he pointed out quietly.. "not that I blame you for that. I hurt you. I...I am not amazing though, trust me on that."

"As for something....maybe water? I don't think I could eat anything."

John did his best to stop feeling angry at Mycroft. For the text, for bringing the baby with so little warning, for not being god and stopping this all from happening. Sherlock was right. He should blame that woman and he did. What kind of monster… what disgusting piece of filth…

“I was wrong for that.” John felt his throat tighten up all the way. Dammit. “I was hurt, I’d been hurting, and I wanted to take it out on you, and that was so wrong. You have to know, I missed you every day. Every day I wished I’d told you… you’re amazing. Forgive me, please for not welcoming you home when I should have.” John pleaded. 

Even so, he extricated himself from Sherlock to give him a little space and went to the kitchen to get some water. “I’ve been a giant asshole.” He said softly as he passed the glass back to Sherlock and sat beside him again.

Sherlock could understand the desire to be angry at Mycroft. Were he a little less shell shocked he might've been angry too. But right now he was too traumatized to feel angry. Besides, unlike John he had been there when his brother came, he'd seen the horror and concern in Mycroft’s expression when he realized what happened. If he'd seen another option he would've taken it and Sherlock knew that.

"You weren't wrong. You were hurt because of what I did, no matter why I did it, and you reacted appropriately. Though...though I admit that being punched was not an easy thing for me. Still, you had no idea what I'd been through...what I'd done....you still don't even know much of it. I forgave you a long time ago, John. Hell, I wasn't even angry with you to begin with because I didn't think you did anything wrong."

He took the water from him, sipping it slowly. "You haven't, you've still been a good friend. You came when I needed you most and that is what matters, right? I couldn't...I couldn't get through this without you. I was falling apart and...and you were the only person I could think of to help me."   

John took a deep breath before speaking. “I don’t think it’s ever right for me to put my hands on you, no matter the reason. You know I have trouble saying these types of things, so I hope you’ll be patient with me when I say. That. I care. About you. And I’m glad you are still my friend. My best friend. We’re going to figure this out together one way or another. You can count on that.” John knew there was plenty more he could say, but now wasn’t the time. It was never the time.  

“When are they arriving?” John asked. He hadn’t looked at much more than the word, baby, when he’d read the text, so he didn’t know what to expect. Would Mycroft even know what to do with a baby? Not that John knew much, but at least as a doctor he knew you couldn't just drop a baby off in a new place with nothing and expect that to work out. A baby needed things, was Mycroft really going to take care of that? Even in the short term she would need things. Lots of things. John had no idea how Sherlock was supposed to handle that.

Sherlock shrugged, looking uncomfortable. "I care about you too. And I know what I did hurt you, so it's perfectly reasonable that you reacted like that. But thank you for...for apologizing. And for coming to help me with this. I...I couldn't handle it alone and I don't know if Mycroft can take seeing me like that. He's the one that helped.....helped me after. I know it was hard for him."

"The baby....they're coming either later tonight or tomorrow," he said, getting very tense. "I...I figured I need to get something....ready for the child. So that there's at least somewhere for sleeping. I think Mycroft is bringing food and everything...clothes...I don't know what they need and...and I don't even know if I can see her, or what will happen if I do."

“Alright.” John said with as much authority as he could muster. “Let’s start with a place to sleep. Do you think you can get ready and go out or do you want me to take care of it on my own?” He didn’t mind shopping on his own. They’d need to have a crib delivered right away, which meant using Sherlock’s extensive system of favors, but really he wasn’t sure he could safely leave Sherlock alone.

What if they came while John was out? Sherlock didn’t even know yet if he could face the baby, let alone be left by himself with her, that just seemed unreasonable in the face of everything. Maybe he could nip out quickly and text Mycroft what he was doing so he wouldn’t rush in while John was gone.

A place to sleep. Sherlock felt his chest tighten again and he had to focus on breathing in and out. They needed at least a few things, whatever he decided, so that they had accommodations appropriate for a small child. After all, even if he couldn't deal with her she shouldn't be in harm’s way because of it. This wasn't her fault. From the little he could glean from Mycroft, she'd had an unpleasant start to life. Not he'd expected that woman to have mothering instincts but still...

"I'll go," he finally said a bit shakily. "I'll go, I should go right? That's....that's what I should do. But I don't know where anything is I..." He was still not entirely put together and he wasn't sure he should be out in public. But he also did not want to be alone so this was the only real option.

“I think we should stick together. You can get dressed while I figure out where to shop and get a hold of Mycroft so he can arrange for things to be delivered for us. You don’t have to worry about the little details, just leave those to me. Then we can go see what we can find and maybe get a bite to eat for dinner, if you feel like it by then.” John said all of this softly, but surely. He could do this much. He had no idea how to handle a baby but he was a grown man and a doctor besides, so he was sure he could figure out the basics.

As for whether or not Sherlock would be okay doing any of this, John wasn’t sure. It didn’t seem right to make him shop, but it wasn’t right to leave him alone either. He probably wouldn’t be able to eat, but John could offer it later nonetheless. All of it made him feel like he needed to take charge, but he didn’t dare overstep, not in this situation. He didn’t have the right to tell Sherlock what to feel or what to do.

Sherlock still looked a bit shell shocked and shaky but he nodded mutely at John's words. If he just went from one moment to the next he might be able to get through this. He was electing not to think about anything too much because if he did he would fall apart again. And if he did that then he'd never be able to leave the house. As it was he wasn't sure leaving the house was a good idea given that he felt reduced to the state he'd been in after Mycroft saved him. Jumpy, frightened, and vulnerable. It wasn't a good feeling. 

He certainly wasn't hungry. But they could get to that later. For now, he walked to his room in a haze and slowly went about putting his clothes on. He was damn near methodical as he slowly fastened each button and slid his limbs into each piece of clothing. Then he took a moment to collect himself, take a deep breath or two, and focus. One step at a time.

John stood and strode to the window and looked out over the street. Then he pulled out his phone and texted Mycroft. 

Going baby shopping. Will need delivery service on call. -JW

He had questions. Many, but Sherlock was right to to try and stop him from being angry with Mycroft. It was just easy to be angry with him, he was here. He was convenient. John couldn’t put energy to holding onto that anger, but letting it go was harder than he could manage just then. Instead he settled for being civil.

Next he called a cab, hoping that by the time Sherlock was ready there would be a ride waiting for them. As a final act of preparation, John searched online for the stores that would carry cribs and bedding and the like and found two within driving distance. They could begin there and if Sherlock wasn’t satisfied he would search again.

His phone pinged with a text from Mycroft. 

Thank you, John. Here’s the number. Please look after him. -MH


	2. Chapter 2

Despite being dressed and more or less ready to go, Sherlock sat down on his bed and stared at the floor for a long time. On her way here was a child that was a painful reminder of the worst time in his entire life. 

And he didn't know what to do. He was frozen, afraid to move for fear that going in any direction would take him back to where he was years before. Where he had to be put on suicide watch, where he could not pull himself back together, where he couldn't sleep or eat or do anything for himself. Mycroft had been beside himself, unable to contact anyone that might've reached him. It had been terrible.

What if seeing the child reminded him of Her? What if she looked like that woman? What if he looked into her eyes and all he could see was the woman who took everything from him? What if he couldn't look at her at all?

He'd probably been sitting for fifteen minutes before he managed to collect himself enough to stand. But he was in something of a daze as he made his way from the room back to where John was. "I think I'm ready," he said softly.

“I was just going to check on you.” John admitted. He was worried about Sherlock, worried that he was leaving him alone for too long. Thankfully he was back out and they could go get this done. John still didn’t want to do it, but they had no choice. It wasn’t like he was cruel enough to want an innocent child to suffer, he just hated that Sherlock had to face such a situation.

“I called a cab,” John told Sherlock. One glance out the window confirmed that the cab was downstairs. “And I’ve arranged to have any purchases picked up so we don’t have to try and find a way to get any large items back here on our own.” 

John headed down the stairs and grabbed his jacket from the peg before pushing out the door. He kept an eye out for Sherlock as they walked and held the door for him to get into the cab. This was going to be hard and John had no way of knowing if they could actually pull it off or not.

"I lost track of time," Sherlock said quietly, his voice dull and tired. 

It was true, he was having a hard time keep track of anything. His thoughts, his time, his emotions. Sherlock never dealt with his time away. Mycroft urged him to seek help; talk to a therapist, a psychiatrist, John....anyone that could help him. But he hadn't. He'd gotten himself healthy enough to function, shoving down his trauma down so that he could do what he needed to do. 

Now all his attempts to push through were falling apart and the cracks in his mental health were beginning to show. 

He followed John downstairs, walking like he was asleep. It was the best he could do right now.   
"That's fine," he responded distantly. "Whatever you want to do is fine." 

He stared at John a long moment when the door was opened before realizing he was supposed to do something. He climbed into the cab and stared out the window, not really seeing anything he was looking at.

John hated this. He hated the sound of despair and hopelessness in Sherlock’s voice. He hated the dead look in his eyes. Most of all he hated that there wasn’t anything he could do about it. John slid into the cab, his heart heavy, and gave the address to the cabbie.

“The first place isn’t far. I figured you’d want something nicer than wholesale, so that’s what I found. Place called,” John hesitated only a moment because the name was so ridiculous it felt out of place just then, “Peppermint London.” He sighed. “It’s supposed to be very nice.”

He could tell that Sherlock didn’t care much about where they went or really what they were even doing, so John wasn’t trying to engage him as much as he was just trying to keep him apprised of what was coming. Peppermint London was only five miles away so the trip wasn’t very long.

"Oh," was all that Sherlock said as the cabbie pulled out onto the street towards the first shop. 

He didn't understand why they needed to go to more than one shop; wasn't this difficult enough? But he didn't have much of a choice. For at least a little while, if not longer, the child would be staying with them. She was three months old and far too young still to do much of anything. They couldn't even hold their own heads up at that age. They were utterly dependent. And if his brother’s texts were any indication, she was sick, weak, and undernourished to boot. She shouldn't suffer because of that woman's actions.

That didn't make it easier on him. Sherlock stared out the window unseeing as his mind went to dark, depressing places and memories. He was quickly sinking back to the terrible place he'd been in and he couldn't shut off the memories which only made it worse. 

When the cab stopped, Sherlock blinked furiously and turned towards John. "I don't know what to look for," he said quietly. "I never expected to....I don't know what to do. I feel like I have to...to help. To pick something. But I don't know what and I feel too numb to think about it."

“I made a small list,” John told him quietly. “Hey. If this is too much at any time, you can sit it out. I can do this for you. At any time.” John tried to sound responsible and capable, but he knew Sherlock wouldn’t be better off alone. Nothing could change the panic climbing all over Sherlock no matter what John did, but he thought keeping an eye on Sherlock and giving him something to focus on was the best bet right now. It was all John had to offer.

He paid the cabbie and climbed out, showing Sherlock to the door of the shop. The bell above the door dinged cheerily as they entered and John found they were surrounded by baby things on all sides. Even to him it seemed a tad overwhelming. Maybe this whole plan was a bit not good.

“Hello, can I help you find something?” A sales clerk approached them, but John shook his head and waved her off. Too much stimulus just now, he thought.

“Let’s find a crib.” He told Sherlock.

A list. Normally Sherlock hated lists, too boring for him. But right now he could hardly string two thoughts together and having something to fall back on sounded heavenly. As it was he was having enough of a hard time trying to keep his stomach down. This was hell. It was a good thing that John hadn't left him alone, however. The last time he was in this state of mind they had him on suicide watch for nearly a month. He wasn't sure he'd do something like that again but it was not a good place to be in mentally and he knew it.

When they stepped into the store the pure cheerfulness of the place turned his stomach. He started to sweat and felt his body shake. God, how was he going to do this? Having a child was supposed to be a good thing. A pleasant thing. That's what he'd always heard, anyway; this was far from that.

Thank god for John keep him grounded. Falling apart here did not seem like an excellent plan and his friend was handling everything in a way Sherlock just couldn't. "A crib. Yes, let’s...let’s start with that."

John led the way through the aisles to the back where the cribs were set up. There were several models, all bedecked in blues or pinks, varying shades of wood, and with a few differing shapes. It meant nothing to him beyond recognizing some sheets were for boys and some for girls. 

“I was thinking something darker like this might fit better,” John said. He wasn’t really thinking anything other than he didn’t want to stick Sherlock with something garish, even if the baby didn’t wind up staying long. “But I’m sure it really doesn’t matter, any of them would work.”

John was suddenly sad looking at all of the baby things around them. Babies should be a happy thing. Welcoming one home, preparing for the baby’s arrival, these things were supposed to be some of the happiest in a person’s life. Instead it felt like a funeral and there wasn’t anything that could change it. John felt the inexplicable urge to cry. For the baby. For Sherlock. For the horror of it all and the tiny innocent babe that hadn’t asked for it’s life any more than Sherlock had.

“Do you have a preference?” He asked, his voice sounding thick to his ears.

Despite the sick feeling in his stomach, Sherlock approached the cribs and ran his hand along the wood of one in particular. Most of the cribs were rectangles and that just....it didn't seem right. Even if she wasn't a wanted child she shouldn't have to suffer for that. It wasn't fair.

The crib was made of dark wood and it was round. The bedding that went with it came in pinks and blues but he was fond of a beige and grey color. He tried to think of a child sleeping in this, his child, and found that he was more okay with this one.

"I prefer this," he said quietly. "If...If we're going to do this....I think this would be better don't you? I...I'd rather have this one." He felt nauseous again but he shoved it down, trying to get through this. There was more to buy, he knew that, even if the only kept her a little while. At least if she found somewhere else to live they could give them nice things.

The crib Sherlock picked was lovely. John didn’t know anything about baby furniture, but this crib stood out. It was round, which John couldn’t recall ever seeing, and somehow that felt appropriate for Sherlock’s child. She should have something rarer, something a little different. Something soft and gentle.

“It’s perfect,” John told him. He consulted his list before adding, “Now bedding.” John hated most of what he was looking at and he knew babies couldn’t see color the way adults could. “It should be something you don’t mind looking at because the baby won’t see the colors for a while anyway.”

"They have this beige one, I like that, and the pink. I suppose she's a girl so...so pink is traditional right?" He was beginning to tremble again, having a hard time thinking about the baby directly. If he just looked around as though picking something for someone else's child he was a little okay. If it was John's child it would be fine. But it wasn't, it was his, and he pressed his hands against his eyes and took deep breaths to try and calm himself.

Once he felt a bit more stable, he dropped his hands and went back to trying to get through this. "Pink and beige, those are good colors. Any baby would like those colors right? What else do...do babies generally need?"

“Pink and beige are good.” John affirmed. He liked that too, it was subtle and not at all garrish like the ones with monkeys or bears. “There’s a lot that they normally need, but I made sort of a small emergency type list. So the only other things I have on it are diapers, bottles, and formula. I’m guessing Mycroft has some of these things. We could get a changing table. Might make things easier.” He offered. 

John hated feeling like he was overwhelming Sherlock. There were just a ton of things babies needed from day to day and he was probably missing some obvious ones. Like a pram maybe, though it was difficult to imagine Sherlock pushing the baby around the park. He needed to wrap his mind around that immediately because the baby deserved walks in the park whether either of them could handle it or not.

“And a pram.” He added after thinking it through.

Sherlock was becoming increasingly uncomfortable with all of this but he tried to hide it. Pretend it was John's baby. That could work right? John liked kids well enough, he had been married....if this was his child's they'd be very excited. 

"Does...does a baby need a mobile?" He asked hesitantly. "Or toys? If this was your child....what would you get? Babies should be comfortable."

Talking in the general was making it a bit easier. Asking what John would want for his child made it easier. It blocked the reality of the situation, which was important. "Babies should be comfortable no matter what their circumstances right? You would want your baby to have that right? so let’s...let’s just get what you would get for your child. That's...that's good right? Yes..."

“We can do that, Sherlock, of course we can. Maybe… maybe we need the sales lady after all? I didn’t want you to be uncomfortable, but…” John’s voice trailed off leaving the obvious left unsaid. But you’re already uncomfortable.

“A mobile, a few toys, all of that’s a good idea. I’d want to get everything I could so I wouldn’t have to worry about anything.” John turned away and took a deep breath. He wasn’t going to have some kind of breakdown because Sherlock needed him to be the strong one, but it was a near thing, pretending this baby was his own. That got close to a lot of things John pushed away on a regular basis. Besides his own troubles were nothing compared to Sherlock’s.

"Right, the sales lady would be helpful so long as she's not...not overly perky." Sherlock knew that perky sales person would ask questions and he really couldn't handle questions right then. 

Despite his own depression and anxiety, he did notice that John was bothered by something. "Are...are you sure you're okay helping me?" He asked cautiously. "You don't seem to be doing much better then me. If it's...not something you want to do I suppose I could just tell the woman to pick things out. I can't do it and...and if you can't then we won't have much of a choice."

John shook himself with disgust. He couldn’t leave Sherlock thinking he couldn’t handle this. By god he would handle it. “I’m alright. I can do this. I feel for you and this situation, but I will handle it. We’ll tell her it’s my baby, okay?” John asked.

He felt bad for letting Sherlock doubt him. Sherlock needed him to be stable and sure right now, and so that’s what he was going to be. Later, much later, when he was alone again, he could break down and feel all the anger and hurt for Sherlock that he wanted or needed to, but right now he was going to get this done so they could get back home, or to Baker Street anyway.

John motioned the sales lady over.

He couldn't say he wasn't relieved that John seemed to perk up a bit. Handling this was more than Sherlock could deal with. Talking to sales people, making choices....everything reminded him that in a matter of hours he'd have to face that living embodiment of what he'd gone through.

The sales women saw the customer hailing her so she put on a smile and walked over. "Yes, what can I help you gentlemen with today? Are you shopping for your child or is this a baby shower gift?" She rarely got men coming in alone in her store, not nearly as many came in as did solitary women; so she wanted to be sure they were catered to.

“It’s for me, my daughter. She came a bit early so my wife and I weren’t really prepared. I picked out a crib and bedding, but what else do we need? I’m out of my depth here.” John lied smoothly. Hopefully the woman wasn’t going to ask too many questions. Otherwise his lie might break down too much.

“I’ve also got a delivery service coming to pick everything up because she’s coming home tonight.” He added, hoping to cover all of the bases.

John showed her the crib and the bedding, which she gathered and set aside for them. Then she led them to the changing tables and asked if they had a rocker or needed one. John hadn’t thought of that. 

“I don’t have one, do you think it’s important?” He asked, his eyes cutting over to Sherlock to see how he was taking all of this.

Sherlock basically got through the whole exercise by pretending he wasn't actually there for his child. It was a random baby, or John's baby, because thinking of it as his brought the panic back again. And he was fairly certain that hyperventilating in the middle of a baby store wouldn't go over well.

"Are...rockers good for babies?" He asked distantly, beginning to tremble again. Okay, okay it would be fine. They'd get whatever the sales lady said was needed. Whatever made babies feel happy. Because all babies deserved that. 

"Well....rocking chairs are good for midnight feedings," She said, looking between them curiously. "they help with the bonding process while keeping the parent comfortable and the baby soothed. They aren't strictly necessary but they can be helpful. Most maternity wings have them and if your baby spent time in a NICU she's probably used to that."

"Babies should be able to be soothed," Sherlock said quietly, looking quite pale but hanging in there for the moment.

“We’ll look at those too, please.” John told the woman. “Probably something to match the crib and changing table. They picked a rocker that was a glider, whatever that meant, that was dark wood with beige padding. Then they outfitted the changing table with everything they would need to change a nappie and John felt like he was getting an education. Next was mobiles and toys.

“You’ll not need many toys for a newborn, but maybe something soft for her to hold on to when she’s in your arms.” She suggested. The lady showed them a little rabbit attached to a pink fuzzy blanket. “Mind you she can’t sleep with it, it isn’t safe, but they like soft things in the beginning and later she’ll be able to better enjoy it.

John took the rabbit, a small rattle, and a bear that looked an awful lot like one he remembered from when he was a boy, then he promised not to leave any of them in her crib. This store had everything they needed but the formula, so John kept following the lady around and answering her as best he could. Every now and then he would shoot Sherlock a look and hope he was picking things Sherlock would choose if he could. 

“Here is our selection of mobiles,” she said, taking them down the next aisle.

It was easier to tune out what was going on around him. If he thought too much, if he dwelled on what was going on around him, he was certain he'd fall apart. Hell, he was fairly certain he'd fall apart anyway once they got him home and he had to deal with the little details. Like where she would sleep. Or what he was going to do with her when she arrived.

Sherlock wanted to lock his door and hide, never come out again. Waste away until he was so small no one could see him or touch him again. That's what nearly happened after Mycroft saved him. He'd been unable to cope in a healthy manner and had descended into a terrible place that his brother had to pull him out of. Even when he came back he wasn't the same. He clung to John once he'd returned home, unable to do much else. There had been some bad nights where Mycroft had to take a list and make sure he didn't overdose. Nights John was not aware of. Likely as not Mycroft had warned the drug dealers of the city not to sell to him today. Probably wise.

They got to the mobiles and for a moment he came out of his daze and approached one in particular. It was metal and wood, not overly colorful but shiny. A simplified model of an atom. The Niels Bohr Atom model, to be specific. "This one," he said firmly as he touched it.

John loved the mobile. It was strange to think he could appreciate anything in the middle of all of this, but he loved that stupid mobile because it was so very Sherlock. “We’ll take it.” He told her. She wrote down the one he wanted and led them to the high chairs and then the prams. John picked an expensive one because it was Mycroft’s money but also because it was navy and slek and he really could imagine Sherlock with it. 

Next came bottles and clothes and bibs and dummies for her to suck on. The items added up until John was so thankful for the delivery service he almost couldn’t talk to them when he called to give them the address.

“Thank you so much for all of your help, I don’t know what we would have done without you,” He said graciously. 

He was exhausted and he could tell Sherlock was too so he texted Mycroft and asked him to bring formula and a crew to set up the baby furniture for them. Mycroft agreed in as few words as possible.

“Is there anything else you want? I think we covered everything, but I thought I should ask before we head home.” John said all of this softly to Sherlock before they left the store.

It was really the only thing besides the crib he'd offered an opinion on while specifically thinking about the child actually coming to their home. Any child of Sherlock’s---wanted or not---would be scientific. A model of an atom was the perfect mobile for a child like that. And even if it proved impossible for Sherlock to care for her at least she would go to a new home with some proof that her father cared for her enough to chose something so...specific for her.

After that he got quiet and stopped really responding to questions. He was tired, he was overwhelmed, and he was headed for another break down. Just paying and getting everything together so they could leave was all he could focus on at this point.

He didn't even thank the lady. He couldn't bring himself to deal with that so he left it John. It probably wasn't fair to put so much on his friend; this wasn't his problem, not really. But if not him then who?

"I want to go home," he said very softly, the first thing he'd said in quite awhile. "Please John I just....I just want to go home."

“Then we’ll go.” John answered softly. Sherlock had managed to keep it together this entire time and it had taken more than an hour to amass everything they needed for the baby. 

Thankfully the cab was still there, as arranged and John held the door for Sherlock. He knew he ought to try and get Sherlock to eat something, but after all of that he was sure it wouldn’t work and in fact might just make matters worse which was the last thing John wanted to do.

In the cab John gave instructions to go back to 221B. “Mycroft is taking care of everything else so we’re done for the night. All we have to do now is wait.” Which now that he’d said it, it didn’t sound very comforting.

Sherlock was ready to go home, maybe crawl into bed and never come out again. He couldn't just off his brain, doors that he'd locked popping open and flooding him with memories that only served to depress him further. While he was still panicky at times, he'd begun to demonstrate a concerning lethargy. A lack of care for where he was, for what was going on. Sherlock was usually attentive, proactive, but he was a shell of his former self at the moment as he mutely followed John outside to the cab.

He barely noticed when the door was opened, only crawling in when he heard John behind him. Once he was in, he stared out the window at the passing cars and wondered vaguely what it would feel like if one of them struck the cab just then. His side, of course, he didn't want John or the driver hurt.

"Waiting is the worst part," he finally said after a long stretch of awkward silence. "Waiting for her to send in another man to...to use me....waiting to see if they'd kill me or just leave me there....waiting for someone to come help me, then giving that up...waiting for her to...to use me....waiting to die...now waiting again for this. I'm so tired of it all."

Jesus. John wanted to punch something, but knew that any negative reaction right now would probably just hurt Sherlock more. “I’m…” I’m so fucking sorry. He couldn’t say it. He wanted to reach out to Sherlock but figured he’d put up with enough for the day. Besides this wasn’t about making John feel better, it was about Sherlock and what he’d been through.

“I shouldn’t have said that.” John said quietly. “I don’t know what to say, but I shouldn’t have said that.” John felt tired and Sherlock looked completely worn down. All of this was a bit too much to process so he couldn’t imagine what Sherlock was going through.

“Do you want something to eat? I can order something and you can eat it whenever.” He offered. John’s heart ached, but all he had was staying practical. That was what he could do for Sherlock. That was all he could do.

Sherlock curled up on the seat, hugging his knees to his chest in what was the most safe position he could take. It felt safe, at least. He continued to stare out the window blankly, face devoid of any particular emotion besides soul deep exhaustion. It was one of those days he wished he'd never made it out of that hell hole. Or that he'd jumped when Moriarty asked it of him. That would've been easier.

He was aware none of this was easy on John but he didn't know what to do or say at this point. It was all just....it was too much. "Don't worry john, I know you don't know what to say. None of this is your fault or your responsibility. I'm just...glad I'm not alone. Mycroft would've sent some stranger to watch me if I was, at least until he got there."

"And no thank you on the food. I'm not hungry. But order something for yourself...lo mein maybe? You like lo mein and it would be easy on your stomach. Can't imagine you're completely okay."

“I’ll be fine,” John tried the words out though they didn’t sound entirely true even to him. “No, you’re right. I’ll order something. He said with much more honesty. John wasn’t going to be fine any time soon and he didn’t know when the baby would arrive so he needed to keep his energy up. He couldn’t go without food the way Sherlock did. At some point maybe Sherlock would take tea, but right now he just needed to be home. Thankfully the ride wasn’t long and they were back in front of 221B before John had time to work himself up too much over the way Sherlock was curled up on the seat. There he was trying to take care of John when it needed to be the other way around. 

John paid the cabbie and thanked him again for waiting for them, then he hurried to follow Sherlock back up the stairs.

Sherlock nodded, not really paying much attention to what John was saying. He just needed to get home before he fell apart in the cab; surely that would end particularly poorly. Mycroft’s men were bringing the things and setting them up so that he didn't have to worry about it. Sherlock was fairly certain he couldn't handle it. Couldn't handle eating, wasn't sure he could sleep without nightmares...hell he didn't even want to shower. Just curl up in bed and lose himself. Drugs would've been nice but he knew better than to think he would ever be allowed around that.


End file.
